Even Death Grows Old
by Sleeping-force's-inside
Summary: Musings of a Reaper and other Characters. The darker sides of the Overwatch-Characters R & E & R
1. Reaper

**Category:** **Overwatch**

 **Rating:** **T**

 **Couples:** **None**

 **Warnings:** **Disturbing Imagery**

 **Chapter:** **OneShot**

 **Copyright:** **Characters & places © By Blizzard, Plot © by me**

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He was getting old. And no, he wasn't... _only_ getting old in terms of 'he was born so long ago his hair had started turning grey', but also in 'drained dry'. He had used his powers with little regard to any kind of limit they might have. He should not have done that.

He-who-had-once-been-Reyes looked at the nearest reflective surface he could find, which was a window, incidentally. He had not had a mirror for what felt like ages, though perhaps one could even call it a lifetime. The scars of the Switzerland-blast had never healed.

He didn't want them to heal. They were a reminder, to him and to the world, of what had been done. He didn't expect them to heal. It had quickly become clear that his cells' hyper-active decay-and-revive only healed damage he had taken _after_ it had first started. Scars from his time in the army and in Blackwatch still adorned his skin. Each was a reminder of a different person, a different man he no longer identified with short of seeing him as a birthing-ground and steppingstone to something new.

A nail traced a scar.

His powers were fading, slowing. Wounds that would not have fazed him shortly after Switzerland now took longer to heal. They now _fazed_ him. Nothing should faze the Reaper, should faze Death. And yet, they were. He had noticed it before, but it had become obvious at Volskaya Industries: his healing could not longer keep up with his damage.

The mech had slowed him, had delayed him... had _hurt_ him. What would have been a small nuisance years ago had proved a hurdle. There had been targets that escaped – curse Ana for always involving herself – but it had become a _habit_. There should not be a habit of people escaping the Reaper. Yet it was so.

He only briefly followed the trail of his finger on glass when he turned into the room. There had been changes in himself he was not happy with. He shadow-walked to the other side of the room, regarding the darkness around him with only mild distaste.

He exactly knew when things had gone wrong. After Winston had electrocuted him in the Moonbase with that Tesla Cannon. Regenerating from such damage had always been... uncomfortable enough that even know it was more of a curse than a blessing, but after the Moon...? It had become straining. His body was straining to undo what damage had happened on a given day. There should be no strain, no damage that lasted for far longer than a mere moment's notice. There should only be death.

His guns are on the table, crossed like the bones of a pirate's flag. Briefly, ever so briefly when he had put them down, a part of him – a part of Reyes-before-everything – had thought about putting his mask above them to make the flag complete. He had put it down on the other end of the table, far from where his guns were.

One of his gloves joined it as he studied his hand. It was pale, far paler than what it could ever have been in life. He knew exactly why this was too: his... _healing_ did not bother with regenerating his lost melanin whenever it replaced his cells. Probably, if he were ever to reveal this to Sombra, she'd say he was stuffing it in his shadows.

It does not matter to him at the moment though, far more important matters being on his mind. The nail of the glove he was still wearing broke his skin easily. He suspected for a while know that it was weaker than normal because of the high overturn-rate of cells, but what can he do? He counts.

He reached four by the time the small wound has closed. It used to be two. It's slowing, curse it all. He was getting old.


	2. Reinhardt

**Category:** **Overwatch**

 **Rating:** **T**

 **Couples:** **None**

 **Warnings:** **Sad, German  
**

 **Chapter:** **OneShot**

 **Copyright:** **Characters & places © By Blizzard, Plot © by me**

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He had not expected this. He _had_ known, of course, but he had not truly expected it. They had gone to Eichenwalde and he had not realized the other Crusader would still be _there_. By the time this battle had happened, he had joined Overwatch. He had not been there when his comrades had fallen to save Germany - and a good number of surrounding countries as well - and he had not had the heart to return after his retirement. Logically, he knew that his presence would not have made a difference. If Balderich had not been able to turn the tide, he certainly wouldn't have.

Reinhardt didn't even notice that someone - if he had to guess, it was probably Ana, bless her kind heart - had shooed out the other's, the omnic at front. It was for the better, certainly. He wondered what some of the younger members would have thought had they seen that there were tears in his eyes.

He put aside his hammer, leaning it against one of the scrap-heaps that had once been Bastion-units. Resting his helmet on the ground before him, he kneeled in front of the Crusader-leader.

"Die Crusader stehen Wache." The old man snorted lightly. "Und werden es auch noch immer stehen, nichtwahr? Du wirst über Eichenwalde wachen bis die Stadt nur noch ein Wald ist..." How easy it had been to just slip back into German. Aside from some small conversations with Angela, he hardly spoke it nowadays. "Ich bin so ungefähr der einzige der noch übrig ist." He chuckled in self-deprevation. "Ich hätte dich nie mich wegschicken lassen sollen. Oh, ich habe überlebt, das nicht, aber... was hatt es gebracht? Ein zweiter Krieg hat angefangen, alter freund. Overwatch war gefallen. Du willst nicht wissen was aus Morrison und Reyes geworden ist."

The Crusader rose to his feet, leaving his helmet and hammer as he approached. "Und ich habe leider nicht deinen Befehl erfüllt." He laughed softly at that. "Keine Kinder die ich Balderich nennen könnte. Dabei müsstest du doch wissen das ich sie eher David nennen würde." He trailed his armoured hand over the carved griffon-armrest. "Noch dazu, hasst du manche von diesen Jungspunden gesehen? Die sind ja fast schon meine Enkel... obwohl ich nicht viel mit ihrem Musik-geschmack habe."

For the first time since ending up alone in the room, Reinhardt looked up at the face of the man sitting in front of him. Granted, with the helmet, he couldn't actually see anything. Not that there probably was much to see after all these years.

"Du hättest sie bestimmt gemocht." The living Crusader sighed in defeat, looking over at the closed door. Somewhere on the other side were the other Overwatch-members. He vaguely wondered how the older generation would have explained this to the younger ones. Would they even have? And how would the Omnic take it? This was after all the aftermath of one of the biggest human-omnic battles from the first war. "Na gut, ich hätte dich ein paar mal stoppen müssen bevor du ihn gequetscht hättest. Aber er ist überraschend... nicht wie eine Machine, wenn du verstehst was ich meine. Er ist ein Mönch, von allen Dingen die ein Omnic sein könnte."

He reached slowly for the weapon of the former leader of his order. "Ein paar von den Alteingesessenen meinten ich musste in Rente gehen." He picked it up, looking at it with a mixture of pride and grief. "Ich werde es aber nicht tun. Nicht solange es noch Unschuldige in dieser Welt gibt die ich beschützen kann. Aber wenn's dann doch soweit kommt... Halte mir ein Plätzchen im Himmel frei, ja?"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

 **English Translation of German:**

"The Crusaders stand guard."

"And will be doing so forever, won't they? You'll stand guard over Eichenwalde until the city is only forest..."

"I am just about the only one left."

"I should have never let you send me away. Oh, I survived, sure, but... what was the use? A second war started, old friend. Overwatch had fallen. You don't want to know what happened to Morrison and Reyes."

"And sadly, I didn't fulfill your order."

"No children I could name Balderich. Though you should know that I'd first name them David."

"Besides, did you see some of these youngsters? They could as well be my grandchildren... though I don't quite agree with their taste in music."

"You would surely have liked them."

"Alright, I would have had to stop you a few times from squishing him. But he's surprisingly not... like a machine, if you get what I mean. He's a monk, of all things that an omnic could be."

"Some of the older members think I should retire."

"I won't do it though, not while there are still innocents in this world that I can protect. But should it come that far... Keep a spot open for me in heaven, alright?"


	3. Genji

**Category:** **Overwatch**

 **Rating:** **T**

 **Couples:** **None**

 **Warnings:** **Mention of Canon Character 'Death'**

 **Chapter:** **OneShot**

 **Copyright:** **Characters & places © By Blizzard, Plot © by me**

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

There was one day when he took leave of everyone. One day in the year where he forsook even the presence of his mentor. Genji had retreated to the top of the concrete building Overwatch was currently residing in. Looking over the surrounding area, he trailed his eyes into the distance. He was facing east, the rising sun reflecting of his metal body. Kneeling neatly on the ground, he looked at the utensils in front of him. Thick Xuan-paper formed a neat pile beside a holder with one ink-stone – nearly used up, he needed to get a new one – and a traditional brush. The small table was low to the ground, his knees just barely not touching it. If he had been wearing a kimono of some kind, one might have expected him to have walked straight out of one of those old Japanese paintings...

Back in the day, he had never had the patience to bother with learning calligraphy. To the exasperation of many of his elder clan-members, his handwriting had long been like the one of a child with the brush-strokes being fat and clumsy. After meeting Zenyatta, he had started practicing again and now found as much peace and relaxation in the act as he did in meditating with his master.

His movements when he ground some of the ink-stone were slow and deliberate. Mixing it with water, he briefly studied the brush to ensure it was still in perfect condition. Satisfied, he slowly started writing. He never consciously picked something to write, but more often than not he would end up with poems he had heard or read long ago.

 _Yugure wa_

 _Kumo no hatate ni_

 _Mono zo omou_

 _Amatsu sora naru_

 _Hito wo kou to te_

He did not remember who had written this one originally, but as he wrote it down he did realize it fit. Today he had died... at the hand of a brother he loved. It had heralded the destruction of their clan until the Shimada-clan had been reduced to near nothing.

" _Tabi ni yande._

 _Yume wa kareno o_

 _kakemeguru_ _"_

He mused out loud while waiting for the first poem to dry. Perhaps another reason as to why he had never bothered with learning calligraphy back in the day; he had not had the patience to wait until ink had dried and each stroke had been perfect.

Now he had. Perhaps later he would try to add some drawing to the finished products of today. He would usually start it immediately after writing, but never on this day. The death-day of Genji of the Shimada was reserved solely for writing. Perhaps one could have seen a small, exasperated smirk on his face when he chuckled in self-deprecation. He should perhaps look up some happier poems for next year.

He slowly lifted the sheet of paper aside, resting stones on the corners so no errand breeze could blow it away.

Taking a slow and deliberate breath, he checked the amount of ink he had left – it would not do that he'd have to refill halfway after all – and judging it enough, he took his brush again. Despite this, he stared ahead more or less blankly instead of writing. It took another breath before his brush started moving over the pale paper again. The long hairs followed his strokes with grace, dancing over the expanse of white he was defiling with pure black ink.

 _tsui ni yuku_

 _michi to wa kanete_

 _kikishikado_

 _kinō kyō to wa_

 _omouwazarishi wo_

* * *

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF JAPANESE (As best I could find)

* * *

At Sunset

Clouds join together like banners

And I think about how it is

To love one who does not live in my world

\- Unknown

Sick on a journey,  
my dreams wander  
the withered fields.

\- Dying poem of Matsuo Bashõ, Haiku-poet of the 17th century

Long ago I heard

That this is the road we must all

Travel in the end,

But I never thought it might

Be yesterday or today.

\- Dying poem of Ariwara no Narihira, waka-poet of the Heian-period


	4. Reinhardt 2

**Category:** **Overwatch**

 **Rating:** **T**

 **Couples:** **none**

 **Warnings:** **Mention of Character-death  
**

 **Chapter:** **OneShot**

 **Copyright:** **Characters & places © By Blizzard**

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

She was alive. They were all alive. Reinhardt had excused himself after that realization. Neither 'Reaper' or 'Soldier 76' had actively confirmed it, but he had been around them for long enough to recognize them as Gabriel and Jack almost immediately.

And now Ana – Ana who had been 'dead' for years – had just chosen to waltz back into his live. He had been elated when she first appeared in front of him to the point of nearly cracking her ribs in one of his famed bearhugs. But then anger had slowly crept into his mind. He was slow to do so, but perhaps because of that, he was fearsome when it had come that far.

He had buried them, all three of them. He had mourned them for _months_ and now all of them just up and decided that they'd rather not be dead!? Oh, a rational part of him knew that they would not have made their respective decisions lightly – though he honestly wondered how Gabriel could have fallen that far…

The massive German mountain was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall opposite his bed where his hammer was resting neatly. They had _died_ years ago… and now they were alive, answering the Recall of an organization they all had abandoned.

Anger roiled beneath his skin, burning in his veins. They had left him and the others without a word and then had just strolled back into their lives. He remembered having to console Fareeha when Jack came back from that one accursed mission and told them Ana was MIA. The girl had been crying for the better part of the rest of the day, crying herself to sleep. Angela had been tearing herself up about Switzerland, always wondering if her staff could have healed the wounds of 'Jack' and 'Gabriel', perhaps even changing the fate of Overwatch itself.

He had been there, shoving his own grief to the wayside to support the others. He had been very good friends with beer for a time just to drown out his own guilty voices.

And now all that had been rendered moot and useless. Fareeha's suffering had been completely unnecessary, poor Angela would never had needed to consider what-ifs and he… he wouldn't have needed to drink rivers worth of second-grade beer.

When he rose from his seat, it was with a slow deliberateness that was completely and utterly unlike him. He marched outside, as far away as he reasonably could without leaving the Overwatch-base grounds. He had left the new communicator in his rooms, taking only his hammer. With Torbjörn around, the thing had gotten a big fixing and could withstand smashing a Bastion-unit into bits.

Not that Reinhardt was considering attacking the resident Bastion. He was also not so far gone that any of the three 'reborn' people needed to fear being squished under the steel weapon. At the moment, honour still demanded they at least attack him first before they earned that fate.

The rock he had chosen had no such luxuries… and was soon reduced to near dust. He remained there, even as the sun started to set in the distance.


End file.
